A Day At The Fair

This morning I'm going to do something I rarely do. I'm going to write a purely personal blog post. If you're not interested in the goings-on in the week of a middle-aged city gal, now is the time to bail. As of this moment, I have nothing political, cultural, or scientific to pass along (although I'm very sure that won't last.) I've been too busy to get in my reading quota for the last few days. Boy, have I been busy. We've had family come to town for hiking trips and dinners out. That was the fun part of busy. The rest gets a bit more tedious. Those of you who have been following the church painting project will send some sympathy our way when you read that my husband and I spent another thrilling couple of days in the bucket of the lift, painting away for hours on end. Sunday, we started after the morning service, and painted till it was too dark to see anymore. Too dark to see happens around 8:30 this time of year in Portland. That's a long time up in the bucket. (We got almost all the trim finished, which is good, because the rented lift gets returned today.) There's been other stuff filling up our time, as well, but I think you've probably had enough Kat's schedule details by now. I know I have.

Yesterday, of course was Labor day, which is a day we traditionally labor. We often use the day off to work on some project or other, however, this year we broke with tradition, in order to fulfill another annual tradition--one of the very few traditions my husband and I have, actually. We went to the Oregon State Fair. The Oregon Fair is huge. There are displays and competitions for just about everything imaginable, except maybe space-walking and deep-sea diving. We try to go every year, although not usually on Labor day, which is the last day of the fair, and tends to be crowded. However, we ran out of time this year, and we had to mesh our schedule together with the schedule of the friends who went with us. We often go alone, but this year we invited some friends who have kids. Seeing everything with kids just adds a whole different dimension to the fun.

This year, because we were with the small fry, we eschewed some of the standard lures that Fair time usually holds for those of us who live in Meowville. We went with things that would please the kids, and this shifted our focus a bit. Some things, though, are universally pleasing. We always see the animals, of course, and this year was no different. However, since it was the last day, many of the critters had headed off to greener pastures already. They had won their ribbons and gone home. Even so, there were still a few stragglers hanging around waiting to be adored, so the kids got to pet llamas and goats, and a really big emu. Goats are so very adorable and friendly. Long-haired, short-haired, pygmy, you name it, they're cute and cuddly in a smelly, barnyard sort of way. A few of my favorite goats were still around. I don't know what they are called but they have these giant pink udders that make them look as though they are straddling a tailless pig. You just can't beat a pig-straddling goat for sheer entertainment value. There were a few giant pigs suckling truly adorable piglets, too. What city kid could want more? The children were amply amused.

The rest of the day passed with great enjoyment. We all baked under the hot sun, sweat literally rolling down our backs, while darling little dogs stood on one paw, and jumped over obstacles. A magician amazed us by re-materializing a shredded playing card and squirting the perspiring crowd with the occasional shower. The crowd was grateful, I think. The kids got to glide down a giant slide and fly in a rocket ship. The two men and small boy in our little party got to climb all over large farm equipment. They climbed over large farm equipment several times during the course of the day. No one could have been happier. Except my husband. He would have been happier if I had actually gone along with him BUYING one of those beautiful pieces of machinery. It was the only disappointment to the day. He is not going to fill up my new shop with a track hoe. It's just not going to happen. We diverted him with the other thing that is dear to every man's heart--food. We all ate terribly healthy fair food, like corn-dogs, caramel corn, and chocolate-dipped cheesecake. And Shave Ice. Every day at the fair needs Shave Ice.

The highlight of the Fair this year for me was definitely the demolition derby. First, it was indoors, and therefor cool. By this point we were all grateful for cool. That wasn't what made the demolition derby the highlight of the day, though. I had forgotten how fun they were. I remember my Dad taking us often, when I was small, to the stock car races. It was a long, loud ordeal for me, although I was happy to go, since it got us out of whatever yard-work needed doing at home. I suffered my way through the diversion, sometimes bored, but glad to be on a family outing. Sometimes, though, at the end of the day, there was the all-too-brief explosion of fun that came from ten or so cars all ramming each other into oblivion. It was glorious. Now, I never was a violent child, but there was just something so exciting about the crunch of metal and the plumes of smoke as beat-up old junkers tried to be the last car standing. Yesterday, we each picked "our car" for the heats. I chose the worst car both times. My husband, on the other hand, chose both the winners. He actually had reasons for his choices, like how sturdy the model was. I just thought mine looked cool. I think his method works better than mine.

It was funny, watching the derby as an adult was every bit as fun, but it did have its grown up, socially conscious moments, like when one of our friends leaned over and mentioned how these cars were all in good running order, and most would be perfectly satisfactory family cars in third world countries. People would be grateful to have such a treasure. Here, we take our wealth so for granted that we demolish them for ten minutes entertainment. Then we award a trophy and a prize. The prize in this case was seventy-five dollars. Seventy-five dollars to destroy a not-quite-perfectly-good, but running, car. The losers get nothing but a heap of shredded metal. How sad. The pang of conscience was short lived, however. Even with that brief flash of social consciousness to mar the moment, it was still a ball.

So we amused ourselves throughout the hot, late-summer day, and Ked and I fully plan to go back again next year. We didn't see horses strutting, pulling stagecoaches, or jumping rail fences this year. We didn't see the photography exhibits, nor the flower displays. We didn't see the giant vegetables, nor the 4H fashion show, no glass blowing, or juggling. There's so much to do when the fair rolls around again. Every year is different, and that's what brings us back, over and over. We enjoyed seeing it this year through the eyes of our friends, and especially their children. The look on a small boy's face as he's making his rocket ship soar higher into the air is, all by itself, worth the long drive, and parking in outer Mongolia, the crowds, the ridiculous prices for bad-for-you food, and the sore feet. By the end of the day, we were all footsore and content, just as such days are meant to end. The only thing missing was the giant blow-up orange octopus that no one ever knows what to do with when they get it home. Oh well, there's always next year.

A Paint Snob's Lament

Well, I spent the day up in the bucket of the lift again, painting trim on our church. Eight hours of trim painting. Eight. I think the building has been growing. I'm sure there are more windows now than when we started this project. However, it might just be that I'm seeing double from fatigue. It's still nice to be making progress, though. The project is getting to that stage where you can really see what it'll look like when it's all done. It's going to be beautiful, and I don't just think so because I was on the committee that chose the colors--although that does help.

Color is very important to me. In fact, I'd say I'm a bit of a color snob. My friends and family would probably phrase it a little less delicately. My husband calls me the paint police of Portland, which isn't really fair. I'd call myself more of a color consultant--who wishes she had more actual power. It's not that I'm uncomfortable with most people's choices, but some people have no business being allowed to make their own paint decisions. I think there is a genetic flaw, or maybe it's a disease, that causes some homeowners to neglect consideration for their neighbors when "decorating" the outside of their houses. This condition is rare, but I find that it does cause some people to violate the Meow paint codes.

Their offenses fall into several legal categories. The first is Class A misdemeanor paint. It's really just a little problem. It's when the body color for the house is good, but the trim was chosen while the culprit was recovering from minor surgery, and is still on heavy pain meds. A Class C felony involves the trim being fine, but the main body color is just plain bad. Perhaps the person's dog has just died, and they aren't really ready to make important decisions yet. Class B felony, of course, should be obvious. Both the trim color and the main color are bad, and one must assume the person who chose them is going through a divorce, or something equally traumatic. The final category is the one for which I can find no excuse, no mitigating circumstance which could justify the lapse in judgment. Class A felony paint involves obvious intent to cause psychological damage. Class A felony paint makes me conjure up words like "flogging" and "retribution."

I had never, until recently, believed that a case of Class A felony paint could be the result of but one color, and the trim color at that. I had always, innocently, thought that it required a particularly egregious combination of offensive hues to incite me to laying that awful charge at the door of any of my fellow human beings, but I was wrong. I was dreadfully wrong. About a week ago, after a long day of painting at the church, I came home to see that my neighbor across the street and two doors down had also been painting. I remember, in the stupor of my exhaustion, thinking as I saw him painting in the dim evening light, "Wow, I hope that's just primer," and then letting my tired mind slip away from the reality of the situation.

When I woke in the morning, it was with nary a thought of the horror that waited just outside my door. As the morning wore on, it finally dawned on me to again peruse the neighbor's handiwork. I may never look out the front window again. Even my husband, whom I have trained well, but who has not yet reached my level of paint snobbery, actually jumped (I am not making this up) when he saw the color that the man across the street had chosen to inflict upon his neighbors. All the trim on his nice, neutral, beige-ish house--columns, doors, fascia, eaves--is now bright, neon, Halloween ORANGE.

My doctor has prescribed sedatives to get me through this trial. We figure I will only be on them for seven or eight years. The neighbor's just got to choose another color by then, doesn't he? Or move. Maybe he'll move so someone with better taste can move into the house and rescue it. (The following is to be read in a whimper.) Please.

Okay, now that I've gotten that off my chest, I will send you on to the thing which I was planning to write about when I started this post. I probably shouldn't have foisted all this pain onto you, but the analyst that I am now seeing to cope with the turmoil of emotions caused by this felony paint situation says that it is good for me to let things out. Anyway, I was asked recently how I feel about political satire. I like satire. Satire helps us deals with the ridiculous, frustrating, and uncontrollable things in life, like felony paint and politicians. Perhaps this is why I responded so well to the piece that I now recommend for your satirical amusement, at TCS Daily, by Bill Smith. I will warn you ahead of time--it pokes fun at the common Democratic stance on the war on Terrorism, by exploring what key Democratic politicians would be saying if Democrats of today treated national security the same way that Democrats of old did. I must confess, that when I first read it, I didn't catch that it was satire, and it rocked my world a bit, but the meds I'm on for that other problem really helped, and once I figured out that it was, indeed, satire, I simply relaxed into it and enjoyed it for what it was. I hope you do the same. (Actually, the fact I didn't know it was satirical at first might have been why I enjoyed it so much, so perhaps I shouldn't have told you, but, oh well. The damage is done already, so try to enjoy it the best you can. Please don't take offense if your politics are the ones currently being satirized. I've taken swipes at the other side too. If it really upsets you, I recommend sedatives. They really help when taken in moderation. Only three or four at a time, and I can almost forget what's just outside my window. Almost.)

Pics In Space

My Kedley and I have been having a busy time of late. We're still up to our elbows in garage construction-related projects, and only have a limited amount of time before the famous Oregon rain kicks in to make chores like painting and dirt pile moving considerably more difficult. We're making some progress. The retaining wall is built, the raised patio is almost complete and I think we've figured out where we're going to tuck most of the remaining mountain of soil left over from garage floor excavation. (We haven't constructed all the tucking spots yet, but at least we now know where they're going.) There's wiring and the like to get to as well, but that's an indoor task and much more rain-friendly.

For the past couple of weeks, however, we haven't been making any progress at all, despite the time sensitive nature of the work outdoors. We've been taking some time off to help out at our church with another "gotta get it done while the sun shines" kind of project. In order to save the every elusive dollar, a group of volunteers from our congregation have been hard at it, painting the outside of the building. Big building. Small congregation. Lots of man hours per man. Lots of man hours per woman for that matter. So anyway, today Ked and I were tackling some of the trim work way up high on the south side peak, and the crown moulding under the eaves. When I say way up high, I mean way up high. Ked and I are guessing somewhere between 45-50 feet at the top. Have I mentioned I don't like heights? Mercifully, unlike with the remodel we did on the inside of the church, we're not using ladders and scaffolds to get the assignment done. We have this handy dandy lift jobby, with a bucket big enough for two, that carries us right up into the sky and parks us next to whatever the target of the moment happens to be. Today, as I said, we were aiming for the peak. Have I mentioned I don't like heights?

Now you might ask what the heck I was doing climbing in that bucket if I'm not particularly happy with the idea of floating around forty or so feet in the air. Good question. The church has the lift for a limited amount of time, and we need to make the most of the time we have, and take advantage of it when people are available. Today, Ked and I were available. So up we went. I discovered something interesting while I was trying to concentrate on my paintbrush, and not on my discomfort. I really only found the whole thing stressful when it was moving. Travelling from spot to spot had me clinging to the sides a bit (although what good that would do if the whole thing toppled I have no idea. We were already harnessed in, so that's probably as good as it gets anyway.) Swaying in place because one of us moved too abruptly, or breathed too hard, or thought quick thoughts, was equally disconcerting. (I used that word a lot today.) On the other hand, in those rare moments when the bucket was still and I stopped to look around, it was kind of fun. Looking over the rooftops and even straight down at the ground was an interesting, if not pleasant experience. I'm not going to volunteer to re-roof the building, or anything, but I survived this portion of the painting, and am feeling somewhat triumphant. My husband probably suffered more than I did, just because I was a tiny little eensy weensy bit tense, but he survived that as well.

So, why did I tell you all this? Mostly just to get it all off my chest--a decompression moment after coming in for a safe landing--but also because being up there reminded me I hadn't checked out this month's space photos from MSNBC. (Just click on "see the slide show" and let the fun begin.) I had a look when I got home, and decided they are worth passing on to you. All of them are pretty darn cool and interesting. Some taken of space, some taken from space, but all taken of things and places you and I aren't likely to get to see in person any time soon, since I'm pretty sure most of us Earthlings won't be heading out on the space shuttle, or hitching a ride on the Cassini spacecraft anytime soon, especially those of us who don't like heights much. Have I mentioned that I don't like heights?